


First of all...

by Liquid_Lyrium



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Broken Bones, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Firsts, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Gunshot Wounds, Hanzo Shimada has Prosthetic Legs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, It's sweeter than it is scary, M/M, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Self-Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-22 17:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15587112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liquid_Lyrium/pseuds/Liquid_Lyrium
Summary: Coffee. Poker. Accident. Mission. Bullet. Kiss.





	First of all...

**Author's Note:**

> There's some oblique references to various wounds in here, per the tags but nothing too gory.

The first cup of coffee is unremarkable. McCree hands it to Hanzo one morning in Gibraltar, manning the 30-year old, barely functioning coffee-maker like it’s his god-given duty. It’s not far from the truth since he’s the only one who can get it to work. While replacing the coffee maker might top some folks’ personal priority lists, it is solidly the bottom priority when it comes to the budget. Some things haven’t changed since the old days.

McCree is surprised when Hanzo requests coffee. The man is fanatically devoted to green and black tea, but there’s a familiarity in the bags under the archer’s keen eyes that he recognizes. A moment later McCree remembers the date on the calendar, and two plus two equals a hangover. McCree passes Hanzo a mug, the scalding warmth of it burning his palm, but it’s nothing compared to the fire that eats through him from the spark that flares to life as he feels the man’s pinky brush along his. McCree abruptly turns away, shaking his hand to dispel the heat on his palm, unable to look at Hanzo in that moment. It’s cowardly, but he doesn’t want to know if Hanzo felt something or not. He can’t bear the thought that it’s just him. He takes a moment to collect himself, rests his hands on the edge of the counter. His heart’s still racing, but over a decade of undercover work and black ops has him acting like nothing’s the matter the next second as he sidles up beside Hanzo.

“Need some hair of the dog?” He keeps his voice low, but he holds his serape out just a bit so Hanzo can see the flask there.

He sees Shimada’s eyes track the room, and there’s a pause before he nods once. McCree makes sure no one sees the transaction take place, and there’s palpable relief on his face as Hanzo lifts the mug to his lips again, inhaling the aroma of the darkest roast Jesse could manage cut by the scent of whiskey so strong it smells like glass-cleaner. Jesse can’t help the soft smile that twists his lips as he sees those brows relax and unfurrow, and it feels like something in his heart unlocks just a little too.

\----

The first hand of poker goes relatively well, but Hanzo knows that McCree is laying a trap. It isn’t hard to see, but pride gets the better of him—as it always does—and he walks right into it several hands later. He swallows a hot lump of anger covered in needles as he silently shoves the winnings over in the cowboy’s direction. Hanzo has gotten better at choosing his words, and he thanks any benevolent entity in the universe that might be listening for the wisdom he’s gained as McCree’s grin makes that obstruction in his throat disappear. He’s certain if he’d spat venom in a childish display of poor sportsmanship and anger he would not have seen that smile.

McCree is in his element at the poker table, years of infiltration and intelligence work giving him an unfair advantage. His insight is legendary, and it is only pride and stubbornness that has kept Hanzo at the table long after everyone else had left.

“So. Up to you, sweetpea. Still up for another hand?” The right side of Hanzo’s body prickles with gooseflesh and his skin seems to shrink. His throat feels dry as Hanzo realizes he _didn’t_ just stay for pride or honor. He wanted that smile all to himself. He _wants_ McCree’s singular, undivided, unwavering attention. His mouth parts, but no sound follows. He seals his lips again and nods, trying to ignore the fire burning in his cheeks, and he can only hope that McCree will ascribe his flush to the alcohol they’ve been steadily consuming.

That lazy smile gets bigger, and McCree gathers the cards while Hanzo falls deeper into the trap he made for himself. “Your deal,” McCree offers him the deck, and Hanzo stares resolutely at the man’s palm as their skin touches together. He wonders if he’s been made. Surely Jesse can see right through him. How inordinately, disproportionately affected he is by the smallest, most incidental touches like this.

As he splits the deck to shuffle the cards, Hanzo risks a glance at McCree. He follows McCree’s gaze to the wall, but there’s nothing there, as the man casually takes a drag from his cigar. Hanzo fumbles the shuffle, and he can’t make the cards bridge as his heart sinks just a little. He can’t breathe as Jesse’s gaze flicks back to him, before he turns all of his attention on Hanzo again. There’s something exquisite about McCree, when he’s edging on concerned. How it peeks through the calm exterior he adopts to set others at ease. It’s everything Hanzo wants and too much to bear.

“You alright, darlin’?” Hanzo splits the deck again, taking time to attempt to school his face into something suitable for the game at hand.

The cards behave this time, and he bridges them perfectly. “I will be once I win that pot back.” McCree’s smirk cracks his carefully crafted defenses for the game, and Hanzo knows he will never succeed at his goal, but he’ll gladly spend the rest of the night trying.

\----

The first time McCree’s fingers brush through Hanzo’s hair, it’s an accident. They’re sitting on the cliffs of Ērgļu after a successful reconnaissance mission in Cēsis with a particularly paranoid omnic with valuable intel. They had extracted the information in exchange for a series of increasingly bizarre favors, but the data that the omnic had given them would hopefully get them closer to finding where O’Deorain was hiding out. Her affiliation with Talon was known but, just as in Blackwatch, the geneticist was decidedly hands-off in her approach to Talon’s missions. This did not make her a less important target.

The national park is mostly abandoned today due to poor weather. A light off-and-on drizzle, but McCree’s goal is to see as much of the world as possible, so he’s willing to lollygag and meander as they make their way back to Rīga before they get on the train home. Hanzo is willing to go on his little side-tours, or at the very least he doesn’t object. Which is how they end up in places such as this, sharing a picnic on damp sandstone cliffs under an overcast sky, overlooking a river with nothing but conifer trees for miles around.

The tourists and locals might be kept at bay by the rain, but the bugs are not. A particularly irritating guest keeps buzzing past their ears, threatening to land and feast off of one of them. It’s almost amusing. Two sharpshooters incapable of taking down an insect. McCree is lucky when he swipes out for the bug that he didn’t use his metal hand. His fingers slide right through the ends of Hanzo’s hair, down for once due to the weather, but he’s fairly certain that his left hand would have yanked out more than a few strands.

The buzzing of the pest circles around them, filling the sudden, unbearable silence. The cold caused by the currently off drizzle hasn’t particularly bothered McCree before now, but he can suddenly feel the chill in the air. His breath fails him as Hanzo’s hand darts out, lightning quick and crushes the bug in his hand. Like some master in an old kung fu movie.

“My hero,” McCree says, attempting to smile and lighten the mood. Hanzo chuckles, and reaches within their pack for one of the dozen or so pīrāgs they’d packed as lunch. McCree snags one as well. Despite having cooled off long ago, they’re still pretty tasty, not that McCree can argue with the wisdom of putting ham or bacon inside a bread roll. The honey cake slices had disappeared well before they reached the park.

It isn’t an accident when McCree takes a risk and lifts his hand up behind Hanzo and lets the man’s hair slide over his knuckles. There’s a stillness to Han’s shoulders that he doesn’t like, but he hasn’t pitched McCree into the river below, either. He pushes his luck. “Man, I never realized before… you take real good care of your hair, huh?” McCree is more of a ‘ _2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner’_ man himself. He turns his hand over, unable to help himself. Hanzo’s hair is just so _soft_. It’s fucking perfect and McCree wants to choke because it’s so smooth and silky, and he _doesn’t_ want to think about how he wants to feel that softness pressed against his palm. Could there ever be a question that the man had been born into a yakuza family when he has criminally perfect hair like this?

Hanzo gives a noncommittal shrug with his draw shoulder. “I have made my own poor hair decisions in the past. Genji’s green hair was not the only sin our family has committed in the name of fashion.”

McCree laughs, “Well, I think you more’n made up for it.” If he keeps his hand where it is much longer, it’s going to be harder to explain his motives. He threads his fingers through the ends of Hanzo’s hair just one more time. He pulls his hand away as slowly as he thinks he can get away with—though Han hasn’t objected to any of the liberties he’s taken so far.

He’s more shocked that he wasn’t called out, as his hand slowly falls away, like he can’t bear _not_ touching the man. McCree wolfs down his pīrāgi in a couple bites, leaning back on his hand. Pressing the wet earth and fallen pine needles against his palm in a desperate bid to try and forget how _right_ it felt to play with the man’s hair. As if the needles can cut through the urge to reach out and comb his fingers through it.

He almost vaults himself into the river when he feels the edge of Hanzo’s hand line up against his own. When he turns to look at Hanzo the man is resolutely staring at the river below. After few minutes, McCree lets the tension ease from his arms, and he takes another pīrāgi from the basket with his metal hand, leaving the edge of his palm made of flesh solidly pressed against Hanzo’s.

\----

The first mission Hanzo goes on without McCree is an unmitigated disaster. He hadn't thought about it before being deployed to Gavdos, but McCree has been on every other mission Hanzo’s run since joining Overwatch. Something felt off when they touched down on Crete, but Hanzo figured that was just a healthy paranoia.

Maybe there is something deeper to how off-balance he feels without McCree to watch his back, to watch the skies. Hanzo doesn’t know what to do with that information, but it is difficult to push thoughts of McCree completely out of his head. Even when he is scanning the hills for signs of life. When the crack of a sniper rifle cuts through the night air, they know two things.

That they have found their target.

And that they have been spotted.

The only thing that saves Tracer from death is her fractured relationship with time, and she survives the initial blow long enough to place her body in a state where it had never happened. The rest of the fight is chaos. Bellowing into comms and the night. He sees Pharah drop from the sky—a barely visible shape against the stars in her black armor. He feels the dragons rage helplessly as he hears his brother’s pain in his ears. He doesn’t dare release them without a clear target.

Hanzo is quite certain he breaks an arm as he jumps down from a rocky ledge to beat a hasty retreat from a gunman. The pain and the snap are clue enough.

It hurts more knowing that the next time they come back, the laboratory Talon has burrowed into the island will be abandoned and stripped of any useful data. The ashes of defeat are bitter in his mouth, but at least they all make it to their transport, though Pharah is gravely wounded. It takes all Dr. Ziegler’s skill to keep her stable as they speed their way back to Crete. Their skiff is a sleek modern thing. It powers through the waves without a hand at her helm. It knows the way home, back to the harbor they got her from.

Tracer and Genji help Hanzo set his arm as they crest through the waves, and a heavy dose of painkillers keeps him from passing out. It’s not quite enough to forestall his anxiety that his arm will never be the same, that he will never handle his bow again.

Tracer speeds them back to Gibraltar once they reach the stashed Orca, paying no mind to stealth and pushes the aircraft to Mach 3, leaving a sonic boom trailing over the Mediterranean Sea. They reach their destination in just under three quarters of an hour.

Hanzo isn’t surprised when McCree is waiting on the tarmac. Pharah means as much to McCree as Genji does to him, after all, but he is surprised when the man walks _him_ to the infirmary.

“Truth be told, I was worried about ya’ll, and I need something to do while we wait on _that_.” McCree gestures his head towards the stretcher already flying out of sight with Lúcio and Dr. Ziegler flanking either side.

“I’m sorry,” the words tumble out of his mouth like weary pearls.

“Not your fault,” McCree falls easily into step beside him. “How’s everyone else?”

“Tracer is… lucky. I think she will be fine, but confused.” He still doesn’t quite understand Tracer’s abilities, or her phantom pains which do not match the type he or Genji experience. Or McCree. “My brother suffered a superficial injury that was taken care of on the flight over.”

“How’re you?” McCree gestures towards the bandages wrapped tightly around the split on his arm, where it rests in the sling.

“I believe my face has gone numb from the amount of painkillers Dr. Ziegler made me consume. Like I have seen an overzealous dentist.” His nose feels unbearably itchy from the lack of feeling.

McCree laughs, a shaky sound full of relief. “C’mere,” and it is completely unnecessary, but Hanzo lets McCree slide a hand around his waist. He lets McCree support him as they walk through the halls, until they find an empty bed for him to rest on in the infirmary. Despite the numbness brought on by medicine, he can still feel his skin tingle. It’s a welcome sensation of warmth that bleeds into his core through where McCree’s presses against him. He almost doesn’t want to crawl into the bed, but an unnatural weariness pulls at his bones—broken and not. The cowboy settles into a chair next to the hospital bed, and Hanzo pretends that McCree is waiting for him instead of Fareeha.

\----

The first bullet McCree takes for Hanzo is in Venice. _How fitting,_ McCree thinks with a smile. Fire blooms in his shoulder, above his metal hand. _Disappointing_ , is his next thought. He really doesn’t want to lose the rest of his arm, if he can help it. Then again… maybe it’s worth it. He flashes Hanzo a smile as everything but the blood running down his arm seems to slow down.

The world sounds very far away. He can just hear the lilt of O’Deorain’s voice echoing through the Galleria d’Arte Moderna di Rialto, but the only words he can hear are from years ago. Blue floods his vision, and Hanzo’s hair is sweeping upwards as a heavenly light seems to crackle through him. He can just make out the sound of… ripping.. tearing? In a moment McCree realizes that it’s silk. The dragons burst from Hanzo’s arm in such a fury his kyudo-gi isn't going to completely survive, despite his traditional, pec-out form. McCree presses his hand against his wound and falters to his knees. He thinks the roar is the blood in his ears, but that’s wrong. It’s from all around them.

_You did it wrong_ , he wants to say. _You didn’t let ‘em out right._ There was no invocation, no arrow, no direction. He’s not sure Han can hear him. McCree doesn’t understand the dragons, doesn’t have a right to. It doesn’t bother him, except… this seems _wrong_ and he’s scared for Hanzo. The man’s lit up like a beacon, and it might be the ruptured artery trying to bleed him dry, but he’d swear the man is levitating, eyes blue and something like St. Elmo’s fire burning along his limbs.

McCree’s vision blurs and the rest of the pain his brain so valiantly kept at bay breaks through and paralyzes him. He’s vaguely aware that he’s on his back, staring up at the ceiling, a kaleidoscope of blue across his vision. This isn’t like Gavdos, like Pharah. They don’t have Mercy with them, and this is the kind of wound McCree knows is beyond Lúcio.

He’s going to die.

There’s a howl in the air, nothing like a wolf, not like any earthly creature. McCree gasps in relief as Hanzo fills his vision—floods it really. The man still blue and throwing lightning or something else off his body like the angriest dance of the seven veils. McCree fights a laugh as another sash of lightning goes flying. He tries to speak, but he’s pretty sure Han isn’t listening. That blue light casts off the man’s upper lip like the whiskers from his dragons, and the only thing that has Jesse feeling just a little sorry for himself is that Hanzo’s eyes still aren’t right, all covered in blue light. He’s roaring something in Japanese that McCree doesn’t understand, probably wouldn’t understand under the best of circumstances.

He tries to form his mouth around the words again, but McCree can’t even hear himself think them.

Before he goes under, he sees that light gather at Hanzo’s palm, and he can _feel_ the burn coursing through him as unimaginable fire floods into his wound. He wishes Hanzo wouldn’t do this for him, Jesse just wants to see him. Wants to look at his pretty face and pretty eyes one more time… that’s all.

\----

When McCree feels his consciousness improbably return he’s… confused. He feels heavy, and he realizes there’s a weight on his stomach. He opens his eyes, painfully slow. He sucks in a breath as he realizes Hanzo is _sleeping_ on him, the archer’s fingers clenched tightly around his right hand. Refusing to let go, even in sleep.

Unlike every other time their hands have touched, McCree doesn’t feel any heat. It just feels… right. Maybe it’s the painkillers clouding his brain. He feels the familiar, dizzying cocktail Mercy has calibrated for his physiology. He recognizes the cracks in the ceiling as Gibraltar’s infirmary. He glances to the left. While his metal prosthetic has been removed, he still has the same stump he had before, wrapped in bandages. He imagines there will be a surgical scar to sport sometime in the future. It’s strange, but his stump feels oddly.... hollow. Like something’s missing. It spirals and winds down along his missing limb, hollowness within a ghost. A void in the map his brain still holds of the arm he's only been without for a few years. Did Angela have to take out some of his muscle to save his arm? Part of a nerve? He’d have to ask exactly what she did later.

McCree savors the quiet and the weight of Hanzo’s warmth that seeps through the blankets on his belly. He lets out a wistful sigh and gently squeezes Hanzo’s hand.

It’s like startling a cat. Hanzo bolts upright with a gasp and immediately puffs himself up to look bigger as he sees that McCree is awake.

_“How. Dare. You!?”_ Hanzo balls his free hand into a fist and pounds the mattress with enough force Jesse feels his feet jump a few inches to the right. “You nearly _died!_ ”

McCree doesn’t have a good counter because it’s the truth.

He lets Hanzo rage, and vent, and cry into his chest. The fact that he’s made Han cry makes him feel more nauseated than the drugs dripping in through his IV.

He isn’t sorry for what he did though, so he doesn’t apologize. Hanzo doesn’t demand an apology either.

When Hanzo’s stopped shaking and the wet patch on the blanket covering his chest has finally started to shrink, Jesse dares to speak, his voice far more hoarse than he expects.

“Start wearing some fucking armor and I won’t have to take bullets for you, handsome.” _Because I will_ , McCree realizes, a grim certainty in his gut.

Every time.

It’s the wrong thing to say because Hanzo rips his hand from McCree’s grasp to stomp around the room, shouting obscenities in Japanese and decrying his idiocy to the heavens. He waits out this second storm. It’s all he can do to hold out his hand and send Han a pleading look when the man draws a breath between tirades and looks in his direction.

Whatever wind Hanzo was building up in his sails is gone. He almost looks defeated, but Hanzo returns to his side and slips his hand into Jesse's waiting palm. “Please,” Hanzo whispers the word like a man petitioning a power he knows isn’t there. Neither of them say anything more for several minutes.

“Hey,” Jesse says at last, his voice still cracked and dry. “Why’d you go all supernova? What happened?” _Why am I alive?_

Hanzo sighs, “I was… upset. O’Deorain escaped, as did Reaper. Widowmaker and the rest of our enemies were not so lucky.” McCree tries to let out a soft whistle, but fails.

“Damn fine feather in your cap hon.”

Hanzo doesn’t seem pleased. To the contrary, he turns his head to avoid Jesse’s gaze. “I do not know how much you remember.” He stops, chewing on his lower lip, thoughtfully studying the monitor displaying his heartbeat.

“You were lit up something fierce… You.. I think you poured lightning in me? Fire? Is that how I survived? You cauterize something?”

Hanzo shakes his head, “It… is not that simple. I could have done that, but I imagine I would have done more damage than good. No.” The archer runs his thumb over the ends of his fingers in his left hand. His brows are furrowed, like he still can’t quite comprehend something. “That was one of the dragons you felt. I put one of my dragons inside you, to keep you alive.”

The vague dizziness Jesse feels from the medicine in his veins makes it feel like the earth has tilted. Like he's on a boat instead of a bed, and it's pitched up several degrees. “What? Can you _do_ that?”

“I made a bargain,” Hanzo’s voice is a low rumble. He lifts their joined hands, lips pressed against McCree’s knuckles in something that is not a kiss. “For your life.”

Jesse parts his lips and swallows painfully, “Sounds like a pretty expensive favor.”

“It was,” Hanzo agrees. McCree feels a terrible sort of knot twisting up his gut.

“What did you do?”

“If it could keep you alive, if you survived to see surgery, then I would release it from my service.”

The hollowness in Jesse’s arm suddenly makes sense, and his stomach coils in horror. “ _Why!?_ ” His life isn’t worth whatever cost Hanzo had to pay to claim those dragons in the first place. It isn’t worth a tenth as much, much less half.

Hanzo, on the other hand, seems to be taking his rhetorical question rather seriously. He has a thoughtful look on his face. “Two has been… difficult to control. It is not common, and most in our family who have had more than one spirit either die young, or are forced to give up at least one of them before death.” Hanzo shrugs. “I have lived much longer than I have had any right to expect. It was inevitable. I am merely fortunate that the spirit did not decide to claim my life upon release. Had it deemed me unworthy…”

Hot, acidic bile is climbing up Jesse’s throat. “Stop. Stop. Stop. I _can’t_.” He can’t stand the picture in his head of Hanzo being torn apart by lightning and blue fire.

Hanzo seems wearily amused. He lets go of McCree’s hand and stretches out their fingers, so that just the tips are pressing together, “Perhaps now you understand why _I_ could not.”

“First of all, I didn’t take a bullet for you just so you could go and try to throw your life away right back,” Jesse doesn’t find it funny at all. He’s fucking _pissed_.

Hanzo gives a half-shrug. “We are both here.”

“No! You shut the fuck up, sit the fuck down, and take a number Hanzo Shimada, it’s _my_ turn to be angry. And _second_ —”

Despite the bullets he’s spitting at the other man, Hanzo isn’t fazed in the slightest. Instead Hanzo laughs, helplessly, his face coming to rest against his stomach again.

McCree hates that it dissolves his anger into almost nothing.

“Get over here,” he demands. “Quit laughin’ at me.” He tries to frown, but it’s much more of a pout.

Hanzo pushes himself up, still wearing that smile—oh _god,_ Jesse wasn’t prepared for that at all—and sits himself on the edge of the bed. Hanzo still has his right hand clasped tight, but his free hand comes up and cradles the base of Jesse’s skull.

The first kiss they share is a soft thing full of trepidation and exhaustion; a confirmation that they are both here and alive. Jesse feels a hollow in his heart as Hanzo tips his head just where he wants it, so that he can trace his mouth along Jesse’s lips in the faintest tease. McCree isn’t going to let him get away with that, and follows that mouth with a ferocity that surprises him through the painkillers. He feels something pour into his heart as Hanzo deepens their kiss and, unlike his arm, he’s pretty sure it won’t feel hollow ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as part of the Target Practice discord server anniversary celebration! The theme for day one was "Firsts."


End file.
